


Chasing Tendrils

by Kai_Smol_Trashlord



Series: My Dear Amatus, Ma'Vhenan [4]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Comfort, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Heck he is a Good Man TM, Iron Bull is a Good Boy TM, Kisses, M/M, Nightmares, post-Adamant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-17
Updated: 2018-11-17
Packaged: 2019-08-24 16:57:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16644140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kai_Smol_Trashlord/pseuds/Kai_Smol_Trashlord
Summary: Nightmares plague and they cling like tendrils. Nothing can chase them away except the love and the light.ORIlren has nightmares post-Adamant and it begins to take it's toll. Thank frick that Dorian is good at comfort now.





	Chasing Tendrils

**Author's Note:**

> Oh look, I'm back and I'm once again being bad at in character stuff. This was sitting half-finished in my google docs for a couple weeks so I finished it just now and now I'm posting it so it may seem a little jarring I guess?

He sweats and he shakes as he sits upright in his bed. His lonely, too big bed that sits in his lonely, too big quarters. The moonlight is silvery and pale as it pokes through the windows of his balcony doors. Ilren thinks to himself that he should probably draw the curtains before going to sleep at night, but he knows he can’t. He can’t do that after the things he heard and saw in the Fade. He knows that most of those in the Fade saw spiders when they were fighting the spawn of that awful Nightmare demon, but not him. The image of what came crawling towards him and attacked him is burned into his brain until the day he dies. 

 

Hauling himself out of the bed, Ilren forces himself to get dressed before he leaves his quarters. He can’t stay in there with the reminder of his loneliness whilst the nightmare clings to him in tendrils that are hooked onto the weaker parts of his mind. He knows that he shouldn’t be walking around Skyhold so late at night, especially when practically everyone is asleep, but he can’t stand to be in that empty room with his thoughts and the whispers of the nightmare plaguing him. It’s selfish, he knows, but he needs  _ him  _ right now and he’s too much of a coward to return to his room. 

 

Making sure not to disturb Solas, Ilren tiptoes up the spiralling staircase that lead to the library and he traverses the familiar path that takes him to Dorian’s own quarters. The door is closed, but he knows that Dorian keeps it unlocked. He always keeps his door unlocked for Ilren but the elf has never paid him a visit so late at night before. The Mage might not appreciate being disturbed so late at night, but the redhead doesn’t care in that instance. He just wants the comfort and protection of his lover’s arms wrapped around him. Dorian will protect him from the nightmares. He knows he will. 

 

Ilren is vaguely surprised when he finds the Mage still awake, reading in his bed. The Mage merely quirks a brow at him upon entry but says nothing before he goes back to his book. The elf is grateful that Dorian doesn’t ask or try to make him talk. He doesn’t know if he can describe what’s dug its claws in so deep only two weeks after it’s happened. Dorian will likely one day try to make him talk, but for now there are no questions. 

 

“You practically live here now,” the dark haired man jokes in a soft tone as Ilren strips down to his underclothes and climbs in beside him. Dorian puts an arm around the elf as he lays down and Ilren throws an arm over his waist whilst he cuddles into his chest. 

 

“Maybe I should stay a little longer this time,” Ilren retorts, smiling at the feel of Dorian’s hand combing through his hair. He leans into the touch and he feels the persistently clinging tendrils of the nightmare float away from him like magic. Part of him likes to think that Dorian is erasing the last of his unease and fear with his magic and it’s a thought that he finds incredibly comforting. 

 

Putting his book down on a bedside table, the Mage waves his hand and the candles in the room blow out. “Perhaps you should. I certainly wouldn’t complain, although I’m sure that people’s tongues will wag more than they do now.” 

 

Ilren presses his lips to Dorian’s chest when the man’s free hand gently rests on the arm the elf has draped over him. His eyes flutter closed and sleep already begins to take over once more. 

 

“Let them.” 

  
  
  


There are dark bags under Ilren’s eyes. His skin is paler and he’s more sluggish than he used to be. Dorian hates seeing it - seeing the Inquisitor deteriorate. Sometimes he can swear that the elf’s clothes are looser on him than before. He’s thankful that the elf’s hunting instincts have stayed sharp and intact and that he still has his reflexes, but he’s not as quick in the other elements of combat anymore. It secretly terrifies him to see someone he cares about go through such inner torment. 

 

It’s after one particular mission Ilren goes on in the Emprise Du Lion when he’s brought back unconscious in Iron Bull’s arms that Dorian realises just how much of a toll things have taken on the elf. He pushes past everyone in his path, demanding that he be allowed to stay in Ilren’s room with him once the Healers are done. It takes some convincing, but he gets them to agree with his demands. 

 

“He’s been like this for a while.” Iron Bull’s voice is quiet, but Dorian can still hear the concern. 

 

“He’s been like this since Adamant,” the Mage sighs as he runs a hand through his hair, leaning against the wall next to Ilren’s door. 

 

Iron Bull shifts uncomfortably under Dorian’s gaze and the Mage narrows his eyes. 

 

“You know something, don’t you?” Dorian requires no answer to his question. The way Bull sighs and runs a hand over his face is all the answer the Mage needs from him, but he knows the qunari will give him an answer anyway. 

 

Iron Bull spares Ilren’s door a glance before looking to Dorian and inclining his head - an invitation to go for a walk. The dark haired man wants to object, but he knows that Roxanne will likely be the first person to be called upon to see the elf if -  _ when  _ \- he awakens. Part of him aches to remain where he is so that he can be by his lover’s side. He doesn’t want to be away from the redhead any further than he is now but it will be a while before Ilren wakes up. 

 

With very few alternatives available, Dorian asks one of the guards on standby to find him as soon as the Inquisitor regains consciousness and follows Iron Bull out into the gardens. He absentmindedly points out to himself where he and Ilren shared their first kiss and his eyes gloss over Elonowen speaking with Blackwall - or is it Thom Rainier now? - as he and Iron Bull pass. They finally come to a stop at a benched area and Dorian leans against a pillar whilst Bull takes a seat on the bench. The Mage wonders to himself how it can hold the weight of such a being as Bull, but he supposes that if the wooden beams of the tavern can support him then so can a bench. 

 

Iron Bull folds his arms over his torso as he leans back against the wall from where he’s sitting. “What did you see when we were in the Fade?” 

 

Dorian frowns. “In the Fade? Spiders. What else would I have seen?” 

 

Dorian sees Iron Bull flinch for the first time since he first came to Skyhold. There’s a dark, haunted look in the qunari’s eye and the Mage realises that, despite appearances, Bull is more compassionate and understanding of fear than many of those back in Tevinter. There’s something very human and down to earth in the way he reacts to Dorian’s words. 

 

“Not all of us saw spiders,” the qunari tells him. “Cole has never said what he saw in the Fade, but it would have to be worse than the spiders you, Hawke, and Stroud saw. For me, in the place of spiders were demons. That’s as much as I’m willing to tell you on that matter.” 

 

Swallowing, Dorian begins to fiddle with one of the many clasps on his clothes. “And Ilren? What did he see?” 

 

Iron Bull looks straight at him, his single eye piercing into him like a knife. It sends cold shivers down his spine and he almost immediately starts regretting the fact he asked. 

 

“The very real possibility of you being possessed and trying to kill him. Your mind gone and replaced with the single intent of killing him.” 

 

Bull looks away from Dorian and over to the more recent embrium flowers that Ilren had planted in the pots nearby. 

 

“Never seen Boss hesitate before. Not even back when we first met and he’d only been with the Inquisition a couple months. But back there? In the Fade? He would either hesitate or attack blindly. I already figured back then that he was seeing something that scared him more than a couple of spiders, although my first guess would’ve been Roxanne seeing as they’re pretty much brother and sister. Would’ve continued thinking it was Roxanne he saw after we came back here if he hadn’t confided it in me during one of our exercises. You know, for a little guy he hits pretty damn hard. Almost knocked me out cold.” 

 

Done with explaining, Iron Bull rises to his feet and stretches. A couple of kitchen workers pass him and he winks at them as they eye him up with interest. The two women giggle to one another before they continue on their way and Dorian runs a hand through his hair. 

 

“Why wouldn’t he tell me? About what he saw, I mean,” he questions quietly. 

 

“Didn’t want to hurt you or make you feel bad, most likely.” Iron Bull steps out into the sun and gazes down at the embrium flowers once more. “He’s a good kid. Just needs to learn to open up a bit more to the people that actually matter.”

 

The Mage remains silent as Iron Bull leaves and tilts his head back against the pillar. 

 

_ “Vishante kaffas…”  _

  
  
  


Eyes blink open and the familiar ceiling of his quarters are above him once more. He doesn’t remember what happened before waking; just that he was in the Emprise Du Lion with Iron Bull, Solas, and Varric hunting down Red Templars. One minute he was firing an arrow at one of the enemy’s archers and he next he’s waking up in his own room back at Skyhold. 

 

“You stupid bloody elf!” 

 

Ilren yelps and sits up, swatting away the smacking hands of Roxanne with a scowl. He instantly regrets sitting up so quickly when the world spins around him and he clutches at his head. 

 

“Do you know how worried we all were? We all thought you were dead! What in the name of the Maker were you thinking, going out there in the state you were in? You almost didn’t wake up, you fool! We could have been burying you and saying goodbye to the Inquisition’s chances at winning this forsaken war!” Roxanne chastises him as she pushes the redhead back so he’s lying down once more. 

 

“What… happened?” he rasps, his voice rough and his throat sore. 

 

“What happened is that you passed out from fatigue and starvation in the Emprise Du Lion! You are an absolute fool for going out there like that,” the brunette hisses. 

 

Ilren glances at Roxanne and he sees the tears brimming her eyes. He knows all too well that she hides her fear and her hurt behind biting words and violence. Her eyes give away how close she is to breaking down and he reaches out to her, weakly taking hold of her hand and giving it a slight squeeze. 

 

“I’m safe now, Roxanne. I’m always safe with my family at my side,” he tells her. 

 

Sniffling, Roxanne kneels beside the bed and leans down to hug him. Ilren feels her hot tears against his skin and he says nothing as he holds her in return. The Templar’s shoulders shake but she makes no sound as she just holds him and cries. Even through her tears, Roxanne makes Ilren feel warm with her stupidly high temperature. He’d like to think that maybe it’s the lyrium that does it, but he’s never been near lyrium or been held by anyone else who uses it so he isn’t sure. He can definitely smell the lyrium on her. It makes her smell different and the scent is almost as addictive as ingesting the liquid itself. 

 

When Roxanne pulls away, her face is red and her eyes are puffy. She opens her mouth to say something, but stops herself when there’s a knock on the door. The Templar rises to her feet and moves over to Ilren’s door. Ilren can’t stop himself smiling when Dorian bounds into the room and pushes the brunette out of the way. 

 

“Dorian Pavus, you ass, you could at least say excuse me before pushing me into the wall!” the Templar yells at him, the Mage waving a hand dismissively at her. 

 

Ilren pushes himself up into a seated position, only to be thrown back into the mattress again by the sheer force of Dorian lunging at him and crushing him in an all consuming hug. His eyes widen at the feel of the Mage’s lips against his, soft and warm and slightly wet. His bones ache, but he doesn’t care as he kisses Dorian back, the dark haired man’s hands fisting his shirt at the front to try and pull him impossibly closer. He still can’t recall fully what happened, but he does know that he missed Dorian when he was gone. The sleepless nights and the clinging tendrils of nightmares haunting him in the loneliness of his tent have been too much to bear. Now, he just wants Dorian to stay with him and let him know it’s safe. Let him know that  _ he’s  _ safe. 

 

“You have me,  _ amatus _ ,” the Mage murmurs oh so softly into his ear. 

 

The tenderness of his words is enough to make Ilren hold him all the more tighter. 

  
  
  


His quarters are darkened by the night once more, but at least he isn’t alone. Dorian is seated upright in bed beside him, a book in his lap and a small candle on the bedside table lit. He turns a page with one hand whilst absentmindedly reaching down to pet Ilren’s hair with the other. The redhead leans into the touch sleepily before moving to pull the Mage into an embrace. He smells of incense and arbor blessing and it chases away what remains of the nightmare from his mind. 

 

The elf leans against Dorian, moving to sit up and gaze down at the book in Dorian’s lap. He smiles when he recognises what it is and nuzzles just beneath the man’s earlobe. 

 

“You seem quite fond of this book,” he comments contently. “Any particular reason why?” 

 

“You mean apart from it being a gift from you, my dear Inquisitor?” Dorian replies as his arm reaches around to pull the elf up against him completely. “You know how I love to read,  _ amatus.  _ These are my favourite childhood stories, after all.” 

 

The redhead hums and begins to trail his finger in little circles on Dorian’s chest. “I know you love to read. I love it when you read to me.” 

 

Dorian’s thumb strokes back and forth against Ilren’s side as he turns his head to gaze down at the elf. Ilren admires his tousled hair and the way the light of the candle illuminates his handsome features, losing himself in the steely grey of his eyes. 

 

“You will always be safe with me,  _ amatus _ ,” the Mage whispers. 

 

Ilren reaches up to brush a loose strand of hair out of the dark haired man’s face. “That’s a nice thought to have,” he says with a grin. 

 

The Mage shakes his head. “It’s not a thought, it’s a vow. I won’t ever hurt you, Ilren. I would never try to hurt or kill you and I don’t much like the thought of you being scared that I would or could.” 

 

Dorian’s lips press against Ilren’s delicately, the latter’s eyes fluttering closed as he savours the feeling. At times like this, when the Inquisitor is recovering from the terrors of lingering nightmares, Dorian’s kisses are gentle and chaste and his words betray him despite trying to remain a closed book. His touches are fleeting and leave Ilren holding him close. All these little things Ilren takes as a sign of the man’s feelings towards him. Neither of them have said that word yet - that illusive word that begins with L. Ilren comes so close to saying it, but he lets it fall away from his lips and be replaced with something else. He wonders sometimes if it’s the same for Dorian too. Even if he never says the word, Dorian always makes him feel loved. Cherished. Safe. 

 

He’s always safe in Dorian’s arms. 

 

The kiss breaks away and Ilren rests his forehead against Dorian’s as he gazes into his eyes. He opens his mouth to speak, only for the other man to place a finger over his lips and effectively shush him. 

 

“Don’t speak. I want to remember you like this.” 

 

Ilren doesn’t think to ask him what that means. He simply nods his head and allows Dorian to cup his cheeks and inspect every inch of his face. Stony grey flits over his features and takes everything in from the smattering of scars everywhere to the pale purple vallaslin etched over the deep scar tissue. His hands eventually move so that his fingers can trail lightly over Ilren’s skin as if drinking in every last detail. 

 

The smile on the Mage’s face is one of awe. “You’re beautiful,  _ amatus.  _ Every inch.” 

 

Ilren rests his hands atop Dorian’s before bringing them up to his lips so he can kiss each knuckle lovingly. 

 

“As are you,  _ ma’vhenan _ .” 

 

It’s not a confession of love - not yet - but it’s close. The way Dorian beams is enough to say without words that he knows it’s the closest to saying love that Ilren will get right now. 

 

And that’s okay. 


End file.
